WITCHLOCK: Balance Is a Delicate Thing
by Annie Newton
Summary: John thought that life with Sherlock Holmes couldn't get any stranger, or more dangerous. One night, he is proven very, very wrong. Sherlock AU where Sherlock is The Darkness, Irene Adler is The Angelus and John Watson becomes a rare, male Witchblade bearer. Other Artifact bearers will make an appearance.
1. Chapter 1

**Title: WITCHLOCK: Balance Is a Delicate Thing**

**Author:** Annie Newton

**Fandom(s): **BBC Sherlock / Witchblade (Top Cow Productions, Inc. Comic Books)

**Genre: **Action, Adventure, Angst, Friendship, Horror, Redemption, Romance, Salvation

**Summery: **John thought that life with Sherlock Holmes couldn't get any stranger, or more dangerous. In one horror-filled night, he is proven very, very wrong. Sherlock AU where Sherlock is The Darkness, Irene Adler is The Angelus and John Watson becomes a rare, male Witchblade bearer. Other Artifact bearers will make an appearance.

**Pairing(s): **Johnlock, Adlock.

**Rating: M - NC-17**

**Warnings: **Language, Gore, Battle/Combat Scenes, Graphic M/M+M/F+F/F Sexual Content, BDSM, Sub/Dom Dynamics, Heaven/Hell Type of Dynamics

**Disclaimer: **I own neither the Sherlock or the Top Cow worlds, universes, concepts nor characters contained within. So don't freak out and sue me. Also, I'm not British, but a proud American. I will probably use American spelling and phrases more often than not. Sorry I'm not sorry.

**Word Count: 3,305**

**Historian's Note:** This Alternate Universe story/series begins after The Blind Banker, but before The Great Game. However, WITCHLOCK will diverge from the canon timeline. We will meet canonical characters out of sequence and out of context.

**Author's Note:** I'm flying by the seat of my pants on this. I may change my mind mid-story about who we will meet, how we will meet and why we will meet. This is, in all sense of the phrase, a work in progress. I just had the idea of "What if…?" Oh, and the title could change.

**Chapter 1**

The night that went to hell – the night that changed John Watson's life forever – started out normally enough, all things considered. Sherlock had turned his nose at the most recent case that Lestrade had sent their way, leaving the two of them without a job in just as many weeks. Work at the clinic was steady, thankfully, but still only part-time. With nothing else to occupy his time, John had turned his attention to his blog, editing the entries and playing with the website's layout.

"What are you doing?"

John looked up, somewhat startled by the sudden question after so many hours of silence. Sherlock sat immobile at the table, his face glued to the eyepiece of his microscope. He seemed like a statue, not bothering to grace John with his attention despite the inquiry. "I'm working on my blog."

"You've been at that for hours."

"You've been at your experiment for hours," John countered, raising a brow.

"Yes, but I am doing something useful with my time."

"And I'm not, I suppose."

"No."

John sat back in his chair, eyes narrowing just slightly. He studied the detective, the lean man's form just as still as a corpse. "Out of curiosity, what else would you see me do?"

"We are low on groceries. You could go out shopping."

The tightening of John's eyes grew a bit more pronounced. They had been through this before. They had been through this multiple times before. Why Sherlock refused to purchase their household groceries would always remain a mystery to John. He could hypothetically understand the man not wanting to shop for John, but he wouldn't even buy for himself!

The money wasn't the issue; Sherlock paid for a good percentage of their expenses. It was the time involved, the effort of being the sole individual in a two-person living arrangement to provide for the both of them. At this point, John was fully convinced that if he were to just disappear, were to just be poofed out of existence, Sherlock would starve. He would become so absorbed in an experiment of his that he would simply forget. Forget to eat; forget to shop. Mrs. Hudson would find his dead, skeletonized remains slouched over his precious microscope, much like he was now. And then the poor woman would die of a heart attack.

Nope. That simply would not do.

John sighed, rubbing at his eyes in annoyance. He watched Sherlock, fully aware that the detective had already duly forgotten about his presence. He grinned as an idea finally struck him. "How about we go to the grocery together?"

"Boring. Why?"

"Because I'm tired of shopping alone. And because you need to get out of this flat."

"Why?"

"Because you've been camped in here for far too long and need some fresh air."

"Why?"

"Because I am your doctor, Sherlock! And as your doctor, I say that it would be in your great benefit, to get up off your arse, walk away from your precious experiments for one bloody hour and help me with the damned, bloody grocery shopping!"

The room was still for nearly a full minute. Deathly still. John began to wonder if he'd perhaps crossed a line. He swallowed, waiting. He was about to get up and go shopping all by his lonesome self – and fully prepared to utter a few colorful obscenities about it – when, finally, Sherlock slowly lifted his head to look up at him. The detective's face was a mask of bafflement and he blinked once, then twice.

"I suppose I would be remiss not to listen to the remedial advice of my doctor."

John angled his head to one side, his interest piqued. "Yes, yes I suppose you would be."

Inhaling sharply through his nose, Sherlock pursed his lips, considering John's rather petty ultimatum. The doctor dared not move a muscle, sitting ever so patiently still while the genius worked it all out. He could practically see the gears churning within the brunette's head, his mind analyzing the pros alongside of the cons of abandoning his experiment against further angering John. It was obviously a tough decision for Sherlock, a fact that displeased John greatly.

At length, Sherlock nodded and stood, buttoning up his suit jacket as he flexed his shoulders straight. "Well, then, let's be off."

John's mouth fell open, and he stared after Sherlock as the other man slipped into his long grey coat. Honestly, he hadn't expected to have won the argument, and he certainly hadn't thought that he could've convinced Sherlock to leave all of his testing's that quickly. John was stunned. And a little bit smug.

Sherlock tucked his scarf, checking his appearance in the mirror over the mantel. "Come on, John. We don't have all night."

"Suddenly in a hurry, are we?" John crossed his legs and settled even further into the chair, a self-satisfied smirk meeting Sherlock's reflection.

"Do not be cheeky." Those icy eyes leered at him from across the room.

"I'm sorry," he said, sounding not in the least, "I just don't win all that often. I thought to revel in the victory a bit."

The taller man rounded, pinning John with a look that harbored absolutely no-nonsense. If he were any other man, John had no doubt that Sherlock would begin berating on him until the very verge of tears. May it be on his homely clothes, his mediocre intelligence or the on inane ramblings of his blog, the verbal attacks would be flying from the detective's mouth.

Due in thanks to his exceptionally quirky friendship with Sherlock, John was mostly spared from such unpleasant outbursts. Mostly. However, he was well aware that it wouldn't do to push his luck. Not with Sherlock Holmes.

With what could only be described as a pout marring his features, John heaved himself up from his plush chair, a groan escaping his throat. "Alright," he said, worming his arms into his Haversack jacket. "Reveling over. Happy?"

Sherlock smiled at John's submission, confident that John didn't notice as he headed for the door, leaving the struggling doctor to catch up. The consulting detective was halfway down the block by the time that John padded up beside him, matching his long gait with just a bit of difficulty.

"You know," John gasped, his breath visible in the chill evening air, "now that you're here, we won't have to pay for a bloody cab for the ride back. More hands to help carry the shopping bags, I mean."

Checking the time on his wristwatch, Sherlock frowned. "If you expect me to help you lug food for the better part of a kilometer, then you're an idiot, John." He buried his gloved hands deep within his coat's pockets, marginally slowing his stride in order to ease John's huffing. "We'll take a cab."

"Then you're paying."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Of course, John."

"And another thing, I- Whoa! Hey! Where're you going?"

"Shortcut, John," Sherlock's voice called from the dark alleyway he had just dashed into. "My time is valuable, so do try and keep up."

Sighing with exasperation, John trotted into the dim tunnel after Sherlock, the shadows swallowing the streetlight behind him. He fell into step next to the hurrying detective, unconsciously shivering at the gloomy surroundings. Trash littered the pavement, the paper wrappings soggy from the day's earlier rain showers, the dumpsters reeking of mold and rot. As John watched, a rather fat rat scampered along beside them, ducking into a crack in the wall of the opposite building. John was positively certain he'd been in much more appealing alleys before this.

John side-stepped a puddle. "You do know where you're going?"

There was an audible snort from Sherlock. "If there's one thing that you should have realized by now," he said, flashing John a sideways grin, "is that I always have a firm grasp of my immediate surroundings."

"Apparently not," came a voice from the dark, low and gravelly like rocky dirt.

Both men pulled up, backing away in surprise from the sudden newcomer. John's brow furrowed and he instinctively reached a hand for his Sig Sauer, cursing when his fingers brushed only denim. He scowled as a man stepped from the blackness, his oily hair working to obscure his long face. The scoundrel held a pistol before him, the barrel shaking within his quivering palm. He smelled of cheap alcohol, and looked like death warmed over.

"Your money," he held out a grimy hand, "give it over."

A silent moment passed, and then a second. The three glared at one another, each man assessing the gravity of the stalemate. Finally Sherlock moved, shifting his body in front of John, his air a terrible, vacant calm.

"Don't think it, nancy," the robber leveled the gun, pointing it right in Sherlock's face. "You just stay right there. You come any closer and your bloke'll be picking yer brains off his coat."

John touched Sherlock's arm, ghosting his fingers across the fabric in warning. "Sherlock…"

Sherlock ignored him. "You've never fired a gun in your life." It wasn't a question. "You're no more than a paltry piss-artist looking to score his next high. Privileged youth, you've spent the last few years burying yourself inside of a bottle and when that failed to suffice, you moved on to something much stronger. My guess is heroin. Your family fed into your desires, eager to keep such indiscretions out of the spotlight. But no more. Your father lost patience and severed you from the family fortune. You were put out on the streets, begging for handouts upon any corner that would have you. A lack of regular access to drugs had forced you into a kind of sobriety. But you've recently found a new source, someone else to give you your high. But for a price. Commit crime for them and they will provide you with all the drugs you require. This is your first attempt at armed robbery, is it not?"

The man sputtered, brows knitted together in utter confusion. "H-how did you-"

"It's all quite obvious. I could go into detail, but I do believe any and all explanations would be wasted on one such as you."

"Sherlock," John again cautioned, a frown pulling at his mouth at the blatant contempt laced within the detective's words. The man was edgy, unstable even. John didn't think he wanted to know how the robber might react if he took offense to Sherlock's obvious tone. John didn't think that Sherlock would want to know either. Not while there was a gun pointed in his face.

"Yeah, she said you had a smart mouth, mate," the man said, readjusting his hold upon the pistol's black grip.

John pursed his lips. _She?_ Had he heard that correctly? He risked a glance at Sherlock, noting that the genius seemed unfazed by such an odd statement.

"Your money!" shouted the robber. "Give it to me!"

Fixing the man with a deathly stare worthy of the Holmes name, Sherlock squared his shoulders, rising to his full height. "I'd advise you to leave." His voice was calm and cold. When he spoke again, John detected an edge of something dangerous woven into his voice. "I won't be asking you again."

Feeling the tension within the air straining taut, John slowly stepped forward. "Sherlock, we should just do as he says." He stilled as the gun wavered in his general direction. "It's not worth the risk."

"Listen to 'im, mate," sneered the robber, flashing his slimy, yellow teeth. "He'll save you from an early grave, he will."

The military had trained John to assess a situation quickly and efficiently. Such conditioning was designed to ensure survival in dangerous, life-threatening encounters. At present, John saw no safe way out of this. The man before them was strung-out, crazy and desperate to get his next fix. He was twitchy, unpredictable, and that made him very, very dangerous. The standoff had to be diffused. And fast. If Sherlock wasn't going to do it, then he sure as hell would.

Reaching into the inner pockets of his jacket, John felt for his wallet. "Here," he said as he brushed past a motionless Sherlock. He received only a half seconds warning before blood splattered hot and sticky across his face.

He stood dumbly as a large snake bit deeply into the thief's right shoulder. _No,_ his mind supplied unhelpfully, _that's not a snake._ The teeth were too long, and there were way, way too many of them. They jutted sharply out from wet, pink gums which oozed with thick saliva. Its skin was as black and shifty as oil, stretched over a skeletal structure unlike that which John had ever seen before. He was distantly reminded of a rotting horse his unit had come across in the outskirts of a ramshackle town in Afghanistan. The half-decomposed skull had appeared gruesomely hellish to him at the time, but now, with the horrible teeth and the eerily glowing eyes, this creature before him appeared to be truly a monster of the underworld.

_But that's simply NOT possible._

The man let out a blood-curdling scream, the creature biting even further into his flesh. His skin made an awful ripping sound as the thing began to pull back, dragging the robber back into the alley's dense shadows. John registered even more movement within the darkness; something quite large uncoiling. He backpedaled, aware of a hand – that had to be Sherlock – grabbing at him, shoving him away from the commotion.

A noise shattered through the night, echoing off of the surrounding brick like a pulsing heartbeat. He was vaguely aware of the thief's gun clattering into a puddle, tendrils of smoke whispering from the barrel as it disappeared into the water. He heard the man's scream cut off suddenly, only to be replaced by a rather loud curse from Sherlock.

There was a wall behind him. It was sturdy; a constant. John gasped as the world spun around him, desperately leaning into the wall for support. He dared to look down at himself, already sickly aware of what he would see. The stain was smaller than he had imagined it being, but it was widening before his eyes, the dark spreading across his middle. Slowly, almost impossibly so, John's knees went weak and he slid down to the ground.

It was then that his brain finally caught up to the situation, and the world snapped sharply, brutally, back into focus.

It wasn't like the first time he was shot. It was worse. So much worse.

Pain exploded within his abdomen, fingering across his organs with a fire that was white with anger. John moaned, clutching desperately at the leeching wound. Blood oozed from the hole and the front of his clothes was quickly becoming slick with it. He raised a hand to his face, frowning at the dark thickness that covered it.

Black blood. The liver. He had only minutes to live.

"Shr'lock," he groaned, glancing up at the man.

John started at the strange yellow glow of the detective's eyes. An ethereal alien armor covered his body, shining green with the low ambient lighting of the alleyway. The shadows surrounding Sherlock seemed to writhe, to flex and pulsate with life. Something wet and slimy was moving there, and John swallowed as he saw the reflection of so many pairs of eyes watching him, appraising him with a kind of primordial hunger.

John stared wide-eyed as Sherlock knelt, his coat billowing behind him in an unearthly breeze. The genius tilted his head, gazing at the broadening pool of blood upon the pavement with a curious expression. He frowned as John gagged, saliva and blood mixing to create a wet, hacking cough.

Sherlock reached a hand out to John's stomach. The man moaned painfully as Sherlock laid his palm over the angry wound. "I will help you," he said.

The darkness came alive with John Watson's scream. He jerked, his body seizing in response to the deathly chill that now gripped his middle like a vise. His perceptions distorted, and John panicked as he lost his sight. He instinctively reached out to anchor himself, locking onto Sherlock's arm and holding tight, desperate for a sense of familiarity within the chaos.

Then there was nothing.

John was left breathless, his lungs just aching for air as he slowly came back to reality. He blinked – rather stupidly – up at Sherlock, inanely noting that the eerie brilliance that had shone in his eyes only moments before had vanished. The pair of irises that now gazed back at him were entirely human and, if John didn't know better, full of barely controlled concern.

John swallowed thickly under the intense scrutiny, running his eyes down to the detective's chest and along the limb that held him. The doctor's fingers were still wrapped securely around Sherlock's wrist and forearm, an arm that now was bare of any armor or adornment. The skin of Sherlock's hand shone pale in the moonlight, and hard as John looked, he could find no trace of the green metal that had magically appeared on his friend.

_Magic._

Horror settled upon John's face, his nostrils flaring as he inhaled sharply through his fear. He batted at Sherlock's arm until he was finally released. He pushed his spine hard against the brick of the alley's wall, his eyes never leaving the dark form that sat motionless within the gloom. Sherlock watched him warily as the frightened man sank back into the dirty wall.

Neither of them spoke. The only sounds were of John's anxious panting and the wail of a far off siren. Though he was reluctant to take his eyes off of Sherlock, John slowly bowed his head, inspecting his wound. His jumper was ruined, the cream-colored fabric stained a sickening ruddy-black. The smell of blood was thick in his nose and the tang of copper stung his throat. John gagged it down as he touched his fingers to his belly, probing his skin for the gaping hole. His flesh was slick with blood, but was otherwise unbroken and left smooth again.

"Wha…" John frantically tore at his stomach, eyes wide and wild and disbelieving. The wound was gone, the mind-numbing pain left by the bullet no longer there. John felt fine. He was fine. He met Sherlock's gaze and saw the freedom held in the detective's expression. "What did you do?"

"I healed you, John."

"How?" John gasped, his fear mingling with a touch of enthralled interest. "What are you?"

Sherlock sighed, his face quite composed and collected. Later, John would consider this moment to be among the most peaceful he had ever seen the great Sherlock Holmes. A mighty weight had finally been lifted from his shoulders; a dark secret had at last been exposed.

"Sherlock?"

"There is something that I need to tell you, John. Something that you need to know about me." Sherlock's voice was steady, a calm in the storm. "About who I am. About what I am."

Dread was again beginning to win out among John's frenzied emotions. He shook his head. "Sherlock…?"

"There is both Darkness and Light in everything on this world. In this universe, even. There's a mix of the two in every single creature that walks this earth. Even in you, John.

"But not me. I am one of only two beings that are either one, or the other. But not both. We can never be both."

"Sherlock!"

The genius blinked but otherwise appeared unmoved by the doctor's sudden and angry shout. He swallowed once, cautiously gauging the irate man before him. "I am The Darkness, John."

John stared, breath coming heavily out from his wrinkled nose. Finally he snorted. Or, perhaps it was a sigh; John didn't really know. "Oh… Fuck. Me."

**Author's Note-Post Chapter: **I hope you are intrigued by the above! Now, please note that I'm not taking this story too seriously. What I mean by that is I will work on it when I feel like working on it. I'm fairly burnt out on another story of mine and this is just something fun that I thought up to keep me occupied until motivation and inspiration to continue said story comes back to me. I do intend to continue this, and soon, but don't expect an update like, every other day or something.

If you're new to the Top Cow universe, and have absolutely no idea what in the hell is going on, I recommend just doing a simple Google search for character/artifact descriptions and for image references.

Oh, and in case you're wondering, John will become a male Witchblade bearer, but it will not be simply a male version of the early T&A Witchblade. I prefer the full-body armor that artist Stjepan Sejic utilizes. Later on, I may post links to reference photos for specific characters.


	2. Chapter 2

**Title: WITCHLOCK: Balance Is a Delicate Thing**

**Author:** Annie Newton

**Fandom(s): **BBC Sherlock / Witchblade (Top Cow Productions, Inc. Comic Books)

**Genre: **Action, Adventure, Angst, Friendship, Horror, Redemption, Romance, Salvation

**Summery: **John thought that life with Sherlock Holmes couldn't get any stranger, or more dangerous. In one horror-filled night, he is proven very, very wrong. Sherlock AU where Sherlock is The Darkness, Irene Adler is The Angelus and John Watson becomes a rare, male Witchblade bearer. Other Artifact bearers will make an appearance.

**Pairing(s): **Johnlock, Adlock.

**Rating: M - NC-17**

**Warnings: **Language, Gore, Battle/Combat Scenes, Graphic M/M+M/F+F/F Sexual Content, BDSM, Sub/Dom Dynamics, Heaven/Hell Type of Dynamics

**Disclaimer: **I own neither the Sherlock or the Top Cow worlds, universes, concepts nor characters contained within. So don't freak out and sue me. Also, I'm not British, but a proud American. I will probably use American spelling and phrases more often than not. Sorry I'm not sorry.

**Word Count: 1,264 **(4,569 total)

**Chapter 2**

_The Earth was formless and void, and Darkness was over the surface of the Deep. Then God said, 'Let there be Light.' And there was Light, and God saw that the Light was Good; and God separated the Light from the Darkness._

_And the Darkness?_

_The Darkness resented it. And so bitterness and spite were born before time itself. And the gnawing anger of the Darkness found no expression for age upon age, festering, putrefying, and distilling to seething perfection. Until a vessel for its boundless hate was found._

_Mankind._

_God's most favored Creation._

_The Darkness seeped into the genes of a particularly fertile bloodline and slowly concreted around their hearts, fossilizing their souls. Each new generation was set loose with nearly limitless power and only one calling: _

_To spill chaos over the world of Light._

oOo

Sherlock laid it all down, baring the ugly truth of the universe over a warm cup of tea. John sat mute as his whole world-view flipped upside down, and then turned inside-out. When Sherlock finally finished, the room remained fairly quiet, a few faint rumblings of passing cars resonating from the street below.

Back painfully straight, John glared at Sherlock, a mirror-image of the consulting detective before him. Neither flinched as the silence between them began to stretch into the realm of the uncomfortable. To his credit, Sherlock made no attempt at breaking the stillness, allowing the former military man to absorb this new information at his own speed.

John sighed and rubbed at his bridge of his nose. "Well, this is just fantastic," he muttered, a touch of irony flavoring his voice. "I knew that you could be a hard bastard, but I never imagined I was sharing a flat with the Devil himself."

A shadow crossed over Sherlock's face. For nearly a full second, he appeared personally injured by John's words. "I am not the Devil, John."

"No?"

"No."

A bark of laughter escaped John's mouth, surprising them both. "An ageless power dating back to before human history? The physical embodiment of all that is dark and chaotic in the world? Having command of countless unearthly demons? Sounds a bit like the Devil to me."

The corners of Sherlock's mouth dipped downwards. "Please understand this, John," he said after moment, his eyes hardening. "Lucifer does exist. But neither he nor I have any interest in each other."

"So you've met him, I take it?"

"Not directly, no."

"I see."

Bracing his elbows upon the arms of his chair, Sherlock steepled his fingers, peering at John with a rather dubious expression. "You don't believe me."

"Oh no," John groaned, now massaging at his temple with a telltale grimace of pain, "I believe you. And therein lays the problem."

Sherlock nodded. He reached for his tea, blowing at the surface of the liquid to ensure its coolness. He took a slow sip, his gaze never leaving John as the former captain struggled to make sense of all that he had witnessed within the last couple of hours. John Watson was a practical man, worldly and rational. Sherlock had no trouble imagining the immense shock to the doctor's delicate system.

"How – exactly – did you heal me?"

"I wasn't for sure that I could," Sherlock said, pursing his lips. "I acted on instinct more than anything." That familiar vacant expression heralding the detective's flash of genius threatened to overtake his features. "Oh, oh now that is interesting. An innate desire to protect those who may be of use to the host. Such an instinct must be inbred within the symbiote to ensure maximal survivability among the other-"

"Symbiote?"

Sherlock blinked, coming down from the beginning of what was going to be a rather lengthy monologue. He frowned, thoughtfully. "From the Greek _symbiotes_ meaning 'companion.' A symbiont is the closest I've been able to come to categorizing this essence of the Darkness. I benefit from the power it gives me, and I provide it a living host."

John met his eyes hesitantly. "Would it die?" He swallowed. "I mean, if it found itself without a host, would it die?"

"No, the Darkness would not die." Sherlock took a sip of tea. "It would be weakened. But it would not die."

Eyes narrowing, John shook his head. "I don't understand. The…symbiote…is in you. So how could it not die if y-" John looked away, a strange pain in his eyes. "If the host dies, how can the symbiote still live?"

"You're confusing the symbiote with the Darkness, John."

"Then let me rephrase." John's face was a wall of stone. "The Darkness prefers to work through the symbiote which in turn works through the host. If your symbiote died, how would the Darkness deal with that?"

Sherlock bowed his head. "Ah. I see. The power of the Darkness would manifest within another male from my family. Possibly in Mycroft."

"And Mycroft knows about all this?"

"Of course."

"Of course," said John, smiling thinly. "Anyone else?"

"Mycroft's personal assistant, most likely."

"You mean Anthea?" John asked, brows knitting.

"Yes," Sherlock said with a dismissive waive of his hand. "That's the one."

"So…" John's lip curled into a bit of a snarl that Sherlock thought was utterly unfitting on the doctor. "No one else, then?"

Sherlock stiffened, the terse tenor of John's words troubling him deeply. His teeth clamped, a slight tightening of the jaw that would have escaped most other peoples' notice. "No one of importance."

John took a breath, held it and then let it out slowly. Maybe he hadn't known Sherlock all that long, but he'd already learned how to recognize when Sherlock was lying. Or, at the very least, when the consulting detective wasn't telling him the whole and complete truth. And at the moment, it was painfully obvious that Sherlock was hedging.

And that made John very angry.

John closed his eyes, the pain in his forehand magnifying, almost doubling in his attempt to rein in his emotions. The hurt raged inside of him, whiting out the backs of his eyelids as he squeezed them shut against his cheeks. He was furious, yes, but hurt as well. The magnitude of this secret that Sherlock had kept from him was an affront to their friendship, a bloody slap in the face to what John had thought of their relationship.

How much did he really know about Sherlock Holmes? About his life? About the kind of man he was?

Nothing, apparently. Not a damn thing.

The sound of something shattering broke through the deafening silence. John opened his eyes, realizing too late that the tight hold he had on his mug had cracked the porcelain, sending a splintered line through the grip. He stared hard at the fissure, a strange disconnect between his head and his hands.

"John?"

The voice barely registered. He didn't care for it to register.

"John?"

"I'm going to bed," John said, quickly standing. He set the ruined mug upon the side-table, moving stiffly past Sherlock as the consulting detective stared after him, a rather fretful expression on his pale face.

"John?"

He didn't stop, didn't turn around to see the wave of indecision wash over Sherlock as the man half rose from his deep, dark leather chair. John kept walking, slowly, purposefully, up the stairs, until he had crossed the threshold of his bedroom. Only then did he risk a glance over his shoulder, before firmly closing the door behind him.

John was positive that, in the complete silence of the flat, Sherlock could easily hear the deadbolt being thrown and the lock turned.

**Author's Note:**

This chapter was a lot shorter than I had originally envisioned. I was going to throw in a lot more backstory and information on what the Darkness is and why Sherlock is the current host, but I decided that would be too much for one chapter. So I'll be spreading it out over the next few chapters.

Oh, and in case anyone out there actually follows The Darkness comics, I understand that you might be a little confused as to what in the hell is going on here. Yes, I am changing the Darkness mythos just a bit to fit it into this fandom. Just roll with it, please. I do believe it'll make sense in the end. At least I hope so.


End file.
